


The Art of Subtlety

by everybodylies



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Winter Falcon, non aou compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 02:56:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4331145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everybodylies/pseuds/everybodylies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has a problem, and his name is Bucky Barnes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of Subtlety

**Author's Note:**

> they remade shield after CATWS right? idk if this is aou compliant
> 
> also you know how they say good authors borrow and great authors steal or something? well i stole a small part of one of these scenes from one of my fave books John Dies at the End. You should all go read it

“Sam.”

Bucky’s wearing a nice shirt today. One of Steve’s old Henley’s, it’s tight in all the right places, which is to say, everywhere.

“Saaaam.”

His shoulder-length hair is tied back in a bun that is somehow simultaneously hot, yet adorable. He’s wearing really dorky old man glasses and reading one of those books about apocalypses that are all the rage these days—

“Sam!”

“What? Huh?” Sam turns to his left to see Steve sitting next to him on the couch, eyes full of concern.

“I was asking you what your Netflix password is,” Steve says, frowning. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Sam says. “The password’s falconrulescapdrools, except all the a’s are @ signs.”

Bucky, seated on the armchair, stifles a laugh. Steve shoots Sam a dry but amused look, as he inputs the password into the television. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks again. “You seem out of it.”

“It’s nothing. Really. Just had a hard time falling asleep last night,” Sam fibs.

Steve leans a little closer. “Is everything alright, Sam?”

Damn Steve. He’s such a… such a… _good friend_. Sam loves Steve, but he does not need this right now.

“Just one of those nights. It happens sometimes, you know,” Sam says vaguely, digging himself deeper into his lie.

“Aw, did poor widdle Sam run out of his sleepytime tea?” Bucky cuts in, a devilishly attractive smirk on his face. Sam also does not need this right now.

“I know you’re trying to make fun of me, but that is actually true. I need to stop by the supermarket today.” Sam grabs the remote from Steve’s hands. “Now, can we please watch some Fringe?”

After three hours of watching Olivia Dunham kick ass, Steve and Bucky leave Sam’s for their own shared apartment. Only, twenty minutes later, Sam’s doorbell rings, and it’s Bucky again.

He’s holding a plastic CVS bag, which he hands to Sam. Sam looks inside it to find a box of his favorite brand of sleepytime tea.

Bucky gives him a warm smile. “Sweet dreams.”

Sam doesn’t respond. Can’t respond. Just stands and watches as Bucky walks down the street and around the corner.

He is so fucked.

* * *

Sam has a crush on the Winter Soldier, and yes, he is completely aware of how bizarre that sounds. If someone had told him a year ago that he’d be infatuated with the deadly Russian assassin who pulled off Sam’s wings and then dropkicked him over the edge of a helicarrier, Sam wouldn’t have believed it.

And now, here he is, daydreaming over Bucky Barnes’ sweet smile and rolled up sleeves and huge, throbbing co—

Okay, so this is a problem.

Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem. Normally, Sam is smooth as all hell. A well-timed joke here, a sultry look there, and then all he has to do is lean in. The men and women become putty in his hands.

But it’s only been six months since Bucky finished his bloody rampage against HYDRA and finally agreed to come home to D.C. Six months of Bucky recovering horrible memories that probably should have just stayed buried, of nightmares and panic attacks and dissociative episodes, of Bucky slowly and haltingly learning how to be a person again. It hasn’t been easy, and in all that time, Bucky, unsurprisingly, has not expressed any desire to date, have sex, or have any kind of social life in general.

Obviously, Sam understands. It’s hard to date when you wake up every morning in a cold sweat because you’re afraid HYDRA froze you again and you’ve lost more decades.

The trouble is: Bucky’s getting better. According to Steve, every day he seems more and more like his old self, and his old self is _charming_. And Sam has been charmed.

What’s a man to do? Well, there’s nothing to do. Bucky’s made it clear he’s not interested in a love life, and Sam will respect that. He’ll wait. Be a good friend, crack some jokes. Maybe he’ll throw in a sultry look every now and then. And when Bucky decides he’s ready, hopefully his thoughts will go straight to Sam. It’s not a bad plan.

Now, if only Bucky weren’t acting so weird lately.

* * *

It all starts one week after the tea incident. He, Bucky, and various other Avengers are at SHIELD for the weekly briefing, and Sam walks up to the conference table and pulls out the chair to Bucky’s left.

Before Sam can sit down, Bucky looks up from the bagel he’s spreading cream cheese on. “Oh, no, don’t sit there, Wilson. Sit over here,” he says, patting the chair to his right.

Narrowing his eyes, Sam scrutinizes both chairs and wonders what’s wrong with either of them. “Why?”

“I just want you to be able to see the presentation, pal,” Bucky says. “If you sit behind me, I’ll block your view.”

Sam gives Bucky a long look. “You’re literally one inch taller than me.”

“Okay, fine,” Bucky says. He leans closer to Sam and lowers his voice. “The truth is, my arm’s kinda on the fritz right now.” Sam looks down at Bucky’s arm. The metal plates shift noisily and out of order, and a few small sparks leap off the elbow joint. “It twitches sometimes, and I don’t want to accidentally hit you.”

Sam shrugs. “Alright.” He sits down on Bucky’s right. There’s no whoopee cushion, and the chair doesn’t collapse, so Sam leans back and relaxes with his coffee.

It turns out, sitting on Sam’s right is Teresa, the cute analyst from Surveillance. She’s got a brilliant smile and the bounciest afro Sam has ever seen. Sam vaguely knows her, sometimes says hi to her in the elevator.

“Hey, Falcon,” she giggles.

“Please, call me Sam,” Sam says, getting a small rush of pride.

They chat off and on throughout the presentation. Sam makes her laugh by giving his best impression of Fury’s resting bitch face. She tells him about her dream of one day quitting SHIELD and opening a bakery. When the meeting ends, she gathers her things and stands up.

“See you around, Sam,” she says, waving goodbye.

“See you,” Sam says.

Sam turns back around to Bucky, who’s gnawing on the second half of his bagel with a sour look on his face.

“Your arm looks fine,” Sam accuses, peering around Bucky.

“Um,” Bucky says. Then, his arm twitches and knocks a cup of coffee onto Lloyd from Accounting.

* * *

Usually, when Sam goes jogging with Steve and Bucky, Bucky keeps pace with Sam, while Steve goes sprinting off into the distance like the superhuman asshole he is.

However, today, when the three of them reach the Mall, both Steve and Bucky run ahead, kicking up dust with their heels. Sam takes a brief moment to roll his eyes, then sets off on his dawdling six minute mile pace.

At ten minutes, Steve’s the first one to lap Sam, shouting his customary “On your left!” as he passes. Has Sam mentioned Steve’s an asshole? A minute later, Sam hears Bucky rapidly approaching from behind. He opens his mouth to shout something like, _if you say on your left or some cutesy variation thereof, so help me god_ , but before he can get the words out, Bucky sticks out his leg and Sam goes tumbling.

Sam finds himself lying on the dirt path, a small scrape on his left knee. He turns to see Bucky sprinting away without any acknowledgement. Sam shakes his fist in the direction of Bucky’s shrinking figure.

“You piece of—”

“Hey, are you okay?”

Sam looks up to see a shirtless man with a strong jawline and biceps that could rival Steve’s.

“Um,” Sam says, suddenly feeling self-conscious of how much he’s sweating. “Yeah, I’m fine.” He takes the man’s hand and allows himself to be pulled up.

The man takes a second glance at Sam’s wound and runs a hand through his thick brown hair. “You sure? That was quite a fall.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve seen worse,” Sam says nonchalantly. “Thanks. I’m Sam, by the way.”

“Charlie,” the man answers. He offers Sam his water bottle. “Do you want to wash that off or something?”

Sam waves him off. “Nah, it’s fine. Trust me, I was a pararescue in the Air Force.”

“Wow.” Charlie’s eyes widen. “You really weren’t kidding when you said you’ve seen worse.”

“Ha, yeah,” Sam says. He and Charlie begin strolling over to a nearby bench. “You know what, let me tell you about the time I…”

Fifteen minutes later, Sam waves goodbye to Charlie and runs into Bucky again on the path.

“Hey, asshole,” Sam says. He points down to his leg. “You know you drew blood?”

Frowning, Bucky reaches into his fanny pack and pulls out a band-aid and some antiseptic. Before Sam can say that it’s not necessary, Bucky is bending down and smearing the cream onto Sam’s leg. “You have a nice chat?” Bucky asks, as he works.

“Uh, yeah, sure.”

“You get his number?”

“No,” Sam says, and when Bucky shoots him an outraged look, he adds slowly, “Was… I… supposed… to?”

Bucky just stands up and shakes his head, then sprints off again.

* * *

Sam strikes up an idle conversation with a stranger at the bar, as he waits for the bartender to finish making Steve and Bucky’s expensive and elaborate drinks (a Sex on the Beach for Steve and a Screaming Orgasm for Bucky).

“Good-looking guy you were talking to,” Bucky says casually, when Sam returns to the booth, drinks in hand.

“Yep.” Sam sips his beer and stares at Bucky. _What is your game?_

“What’s his name?”

Sam shrugs. “Will or Wally, I don’t remember.”

“He looks cool,” Bucky says, crossing his arms, “probably in a band or something.”

“Sure.”

Steve looks baffled. He glances between Bucky and Sam repeatedly. Eventually, he says, “He, uh, had a nice ass, too.”

Bucky sighs.

* * *

The next time Sam sees Steve without Bucky, they’re at an afternoon Mets game, hiding their identities behind baseball caps and large sunglasses. They watch the game, chat, throw peanuts at each other. Steve goes on a rant about how baseball has changed for the worse; before, it used to be about speed and strategy, and now it’s about home runs and steroids.

“Bucky keeps trying to set me up with people,” Sam says conversationally, during the bottom of the fourth.

“Ha, yeah I noticed that,” Steve chuckles. “Is it bothering you?”

“Not really. It’s just… strange. I don’t get why.”

Steve shrugs. “He used to do it to me all the time before the war. It actually got a little annoying sometimes, but I think that’s just how he shows he loves you.”

“Hm.”

“I can talk to him if you want me to.”

Sam shakes his head. “It’s okay. I can handle it myself.”

* * *

Sam puts away the last folding chair and sighs. He goes to leave, but finds he can’t. Instead, he leans against the wall and slides down until he’s sitting on the linoleum floor.

After a few minutes, the door opens. “This room’s been reserved for another ten minutes,” Sam shouts to whoever’s intruding.

“It’s me,” Bucky says, walking over. “I was passing by and I figured your meeting was just about over, so I came to see if you wanted to grab some lunch.” He furrows his brow. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

Sam bites back the instinct to say _nothing_. “I hate this job,” he says, instead.

Bucky frowns. He sits down in front of Sam, legs crossed. “No, you don’t,” he says.

“No, I don’t,” Sam agrees tiredly. “But I hate it today.”

“What happened?”

“One of my vets didn’t make it to group today. Apparently, he downed a bottle of pills.”

“Shit.” Bucky runs a hand through his hair. “Is he gonna be okay?”

“He’s still unconscious, but the doctors say he’ll probably make a full recovery.”

Bucky sighs in relief. “Good. Good. That’s good.”

“I should have noticed something was wrong,” Sam says, voice quiet.

“Sam, come on.”

“I’m his goddamn counselor, Bucky! This was my responsibility!”

Bucky scoots a little closer, until his shoes touch Sam’s. “Depressed people are good at hiding it,” he says sagely. “You saw him like twice a week for an hour. It wasn’t your fault.”

“You don’t know that.”

“But I know you,” Bucky insists. “And I know you have never given this job less than your best. And if there was anything to notice, you would have noticed it, and you would have fixed it.”

Bucky’s eyes turn dark. “And I know war, Sam. You send someone over there to get shot at and to shoot people and to watch people die, and they’re not going to come back whole. And you can try and try to help people, but, in the end, it’s all up to them, and sometimes it’s not enough.” Bucky pauses. “Sorry, I’m not good at pep talks.”

Sam smiles faintly. “It’s okay.”

“Let’s go get lunch,” Bucky says, standing up and pulling Sam up with him, “I’ll buy you a taco.”

* * *

“So,” Bucky says, sprawled out on the couch, the next time Sam is over at his and Steve’s apartment.

“… yes?” Sam says. He leaves his dishes in the sink, then walks back over to the couch.

“I met a cute receptionist at SHIELD today who I thought you would like.” Bucky reaches up to stick a post-it note on Sam’s arm. “That’s his number. You should call him.”

Sam pulls off the post-it and stares at it, confused. Behind Bucky’s back, he quietly crinkles up the paper and tosses it into the recycling.

“Okay,” Sam says, “so you’re pretty much done trying to be subtle now, I see.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow at him. “Pal, I was done trying to be subtle about six weeks ago.”

“Alright, spill,” Sam crosses his arms and leans against the back of the couch. “What’s the deal, Bucky? Why do you want me to go on a date so badly?”

Bucky shrugs. “I’m your friend. I want you to be happy.”

“Mm, no,” Sam says, shaking his head. “I’m not buying it. There’s more to it than that.”

“Fine.” Bucky throws his hands up in the air. “Look, I feel bad that you have to spend so much time dealing with me and my panic attacks and everything. I want you to have more of a social life.”

Sam’s stomach drops. He hadn’t known Bucky felt this way. “Okay, first of all, I don’t have to ‘deal’ with you. I ‘hang out’ with you because I enjoy it, believe or not.” Bucky’s unconvinced stare just makes Sam feel sad. “And second of all,” he says, slightly offended, “I don’t need your help to have a social life. I am fully capable of finding dates on my own, just so you know.”

“I’m not so sure about that, actually,” Bucky cuts in. “Since you’re all hung up on me and everything.”

Sam freezes. “Wh-what? That is… that is so… false…”

Bucky gives Sam a horribly dry look. “I’m an assassin, Sam. I can tell when people are staring at me. Also, you’re not exactly Mr. Subtlety either.”

_Come on, Sam. You’re a smooth operator. Own it._

“Oh. So I’m assuming you… wouldn’t want to go on a date with me, then?”

Bucky sighs and looks at Sam with a gentle expression. He hops over the couch to stand next to Sam. “Look,” he says, “it’s not about what I want.”

“Well, what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means…” Bucky waves his hands in the air, lost for words. “It means, you’re Sam Wilson. You’re the guy everyone likes. You make everyone laugh, and you always know the right thing to say. You save people’s lives all the time, as an Avenger and a counselor.”

“… thanks?”

“And I’m Bucky Barnes, the Winter Soldier. I’m one of the deadliest assassins in the world. I’m responsible for some of the most gruesome murders on U.S. soil. I’m not normal, and I don’t think I’ll ever be normal for the rest of my life.”

Sam is silent as he thinks.

“Are you trying to say you don’t deserve me?” Sam asks softly, after a while.

Bucky nods, a stiff up and down.

Sam’s first instinct is to give Bucky a long and laborious lecture on all the myriad of reasons that that statement is wrong, but he has another idea.

“Fine,” he says. “You can set me up.”

Bucky sighs in relief. “Thank you.”

“But let me give you some specifications this time. Make it easier for you.”

Bucky perks up, as if he is pleasantly surprised that this is going so well. “Go ahead.”

“I want someone charming, attractive,” Sam begins, trying to hide his mischievous smirk. Bucky stares at him attentively, like he’s taking close mental notes. “Someone who can speak Russian and hit a target from a mile away. Who has long, flowing hair that smells like cucumbers and is one inch taller than me.”

“Stop that,” Bucky grumbles, crossing his arms and looking extremely unamused.

“Stop what?” Sam asks innocently. “I’m just describing my dream date.”

“You’re…” He pauses for a moment to sniff a lock of his hair. “You’re describing me.”

“Am I? Hadn’t noticed.” Bucky puts his face into his hands. “As I was saying,” Sam continues, “I want someone who’s loyal, extremely loyal to the people they care about. I want someone who gets me, who wants the best for me. I want a good person, who works every day to make this world a better place. I want… someone who fits with me in all the right ways.”

Bucky’s expression right now is some sort of mix between horror, annoyance, and, right there in the eyes, the tiniest bit of hope. Slowly, hesitantly, he steps closer to Sam. He puts his hands out, runs them down Sam’s sides, until they rest on his hips. Sam holds his breath, waiting.

Bucky licks his lips, and, voice low, says, “You’re really picky, did you know that?”

Sam laughs, and leans in.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think here or on my [tumblr](http://coldtea.tumblr.com//)!


End file.
